Blue Devils

 My already small life has shrunken even farther. I go to work, I come back home. I go to work, I come back home. I spend most of my days off sleeping, with an occasional trip to the grocery store. I don't do anything. I don't talk to anyone. It's miserable.

 Most of the way to work is on a slight downward incline, so I give my knee a reset by sitting on my scooter with my bad leg extended. The ride is more harrowing than fun; I'm  mindful of how easily a single stick or sidewalk crack can send me sprawling if I hit it too fast. I usually stop to rest at the halfway point, in front of the Carmelita Apartments. The word RIVER is written in pale green on the yellow bricks, has been for months. A few blocks away I stop at the crosswalk as one car after another speeds past without so much as slowing down. I give each one the finger.

The way back home is, of course, slightly uphill, so I can't sit down. I'm usually pretty tired after work so I take it slow.. I take a slightly different route than in the morning, which takes me past a building which used to be an accounting office. In front is a patch of grass which is a popular spot for dog walkers to let their pets relieve themselves. A couple of months ago, a plastic bucket appeared there with the words "Dog Poo Here" written on the side along with a couple of doodled flowers. The bucket soon filled with plastic baggies full of poo, but then it emptied again. This happened a number of times, the level of poo bags rising and falling, until finally whoever was emptying out the bucket just gave up, and little baggies of all colors were everywhere. Then they all disappeared -all the bags, along with the bucket itself- and people went back to just letting their dogs shit directly on the grass.

The only other time I leave the house is to see my doctor. It's a short ride on the streetcar but it takes every bit of strength I have to go up there and back. Since surgery I've been going at least once a week. The day finally comes when I'm scheduled to get my stitches out. The doctor takes x-rays, then unwraps my foot. My foot looks like a slab of raw beef, the stitches stick out like black hairs. His initials are still written in magic marker on my skin: PP. He takes out a few stitches, then stops, thinks for a moment. "I'll do the rest next week," he says. "Does it look okay?" I ask. "Looks great," he says. "So why not do them now?" I ask. "Next week," he says. "You said that last week," I say. He wraps me up and leaves the room. I hear him say "high risk" to the receptionist, who over the weekend went to see her old high school football team, the Walla Walla Blue Devils, play. Before I leave I ask her if they won. She doesn't answer. I tell her I'll see her next week, and don't realize until I get home that I've forgotten to make an appointment.